French title: J’irai cracher sur vos tombes; Translated into English by Boris Vian and Milton Rosenthal; With a Preface by Boris Vian; The TamTam edition comes . J’irai cracher sur vos tombes / Vernon Sullivan ; traduit de l’américain par Boris Vian. Call Number: JWJ Za Su56 jb (Request the physical item to view in our . J’irai cracher sur vos tombes. English. Creator: Vian, Boris, Translation of: J’irai cracher sur vos tombes. Physical Description: p. ; 19 cm.
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J’irai cracher sur vos tombes by Vernon Sullivan. Published in Paris in as a hardboiled thriller loaded with sex and blood, allegedly censored in the US and “translated” into French, I Spit On Your Graves was both a pure mystification and direct home to American literature and movies.
More deeply, it was a violent attack on racism by a jazz fan who had already befriended many black musicians and was to become the clo Published in Paris in as a hardboiled thriller loaded with sex and blood, allegedly censored in the US and “translated” into French, I Spit On Your Graves was both a pure mystification and direct home to American literature and movies.
More deeply, it was a violent attack on racism by a jazz fan who had already befriended many black musicians and was to become the closest French friend of Ellington, Davis, and Parker. Find out why this young author outstripped sales of Malraux, Camus, Sartre, and de Beauvoir when it appeared in France With an introduction by Marc Lapprand. Published first published November 21st United States of America. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up.
To ask other readers questions about J’irai cracher sur vos tombesplease sign up. Be the first to ask a question about J’irai cracher sur vos tombes. Lists with This Book. This book is not yet featured on Listopia. I’m afraid I found this book rather revolting.
It is meant to be read ironically at some level at least, it is widely claimed that that’s the correct interpretationbut to me it came across more as sadistic pornography. Though the author was, as usual, very inventive. He wrote the book in French, but claimed it was a translation of an American thriller written by a hitherto unknown black author; the book, Vian said, couldn’t be published in the US because the story involved a black hero who s I’m afraid I found this book rather revolting.
He wrote the book in French, but claimed it was a translation of an American thriller written by a hitherto unknown black author; the book, Vian said, couldn’t be published in the US because the story involved a black hero who seduces and finally kills two white women in a particularly horrible way.
The text is cleverly mangled so that it indeed appears to have been translated from English. The book was a bestseller, but destroyed poor Vian. Then he had a fatal heart attack while watching the premiere of the very bad movie version, which he disowned – among other things, they had pasted on a happy ending, despite the fact that it is structurally a Greek tragedy.
His last words were something like “Those assholes are never Americans”, and he keeled over. He was only The streak of bad luck continued even after his death. Vian disliked the first movie enough to die rather than watch it to the end, and he would almost certainly have disliked the second one even more.
Vernon Sullivan: The Bestselling Writer Who Didn’t Exist
I feel this story needs a moral, but have no idea what it might be! Maybe some insightful person can point it out? View all 22 comments. View all 4 comments. Herkes onu “beyaz” zannediyor. View all 6 comments. La historia es una espiral de violencia, venganza, sexo y alcohol sin nada de relleno y contada sin tapujos.
Hay escenas francamente muy duras. Supongo que eso es precisamente lo que buscaba Boris Vian. View all 3 comments.
I am sure some Vian fans will take issue with my putting this novel on the pulp fiction level but really, is it necessary to brag about fucking 13 year olds and abusing them in order to be considered a “rebel” as a writer?
Do I absolutely have to be disgusted and want to throw up due to the oppressive misogyny and violence of the story to call it art? I draw the line here as I did with the second Larssen book that this was too gratuitous, too full of hate of women, too devoid of humanity or hu I am sure some Vian fans will take issue with my putting this novel on the pulp fiction level but really, is it necessary to brag about fucking 13 year olds and abusing them in order to be considered a “rebel” as a writer?
I draw the line here as I did with the second Larssen book that this was too gratuitous, too full of hate of women, too devoid of humanity or humour. I am far from puritanical as anyone looking through my read list on GR would see.
Boris Vian: still spitting from beyond the grave
I was not put off by the bizarre scenes in Roth or Pynchon or even Sade. But I felt that Vian was just writing to smell his cum as he masturbated on the pages. He tombew not care about what his eventual readers would thing or how painful it might be to read for them.
I find this book contemptuous and wish I had not attempted to read it. That being said, it seems that the current President shares the same disdain and lack of respect for women that Vian did: At one time I would actively avoid pain and unhappiness, torture and murder, in my reading.
I called those who sought out that kind of thing literary ambulance chasers. And yet over the last twelve months I have found myself increasingly indulging in it too, even though it still disturbs and upsets me. While I still feel compassion for others, I now realise that I am probably drawn to books that confirm this negative world view, the view that people are essentially full of shit and life is mostly viciousness, pettiness, vapidity and suffering.
He wrote I Spit On Your Graves, which as previously suggested is decidedly not cute nor twee, in two weeks as a genre exercise.
Vernon Sullivan: The Bestselling Writer Who Didn’t Exist | CrimeReads
On face value, it is a passable, better than average, and certainly readable, example of hard-boiled noir in iraii a man arrives in a town and seeks to take revenge upon some of the inhabitants for the murder of his younger brother.
The narrator, Lee Anderson, is engagingly, typically, broad-shouldered and mean; and the supporting cast also conform to expectations, which is to say that the men are hard-drinkers and the women — who make up the majority — are hot-to-trot. Nearly all noir is political, because it is so class conscious; it deals almost exclusively with the lower — a word I use economically, not necessarily morally — elements of society and with crime.
However, not often, or certainly not when the book was written, is race a factor. Secondly, and more interestingly, it is also used as a weapon. Anderson is able to pass amongst the whites because he looks like them.
Using the stealth of his appearance, he targets two young, local white girls, who he intends to bed and then dispose of. Crucially, he wants them to know that they were fucked by a black man before he kills them, as he believes that this will horrify them. It is worth pointing out before going any further that the book was originally published under the name Vernon Sullivan. This was not, moreover, an ordinary pseudonym. In a move that put him in the same position as his central character, Vian — a white Frenchman — took on the disguise of a black American, going so far as to pen a preface in which Sullivan outlines the intention or philosophy behind his work.
That Vian would not want his own name associated with the book is not surprising, as a story this controversial and relentlessly grim might have been career suicide.
However, I feel as though his decision to use a persona, especially that of a black man, was an unfortunate one. First of all, if you are going to write something like I Spit On Your Graves, in which I imagine Vian believed he was making serious, important points about his society, you ought to have the balls to claim it as your own, and not try and rcacher it off idai the very elements of that society that you feel are unjustly treated.
Secondly, using Vernon Sullivan strikes me as an attempt to give his opinions and ideas authenticity, as though he understood himself that a successful white Frenchman speaking for disenfranchised black America suggests a lamentable, almost offensive, level of arrogance.
He is athletically built, criminal, violent and sex obsessed. There is barely a paragraph that goes by in which the narrator is not lusting after one young teenage girl or other. Sex is — far more than revenge, or his brother, or injustice — almost all he thinks about.
Furthermore, one also has to ask why all the girls that Anderson sleeps with, and in some cases rapes, are underage. I struggled to understand the relevance of that. It viah seedy, nasty, and pointless.
To have made them of age, in their twenties for example, would not have altered the story at all, except to make it marginally less disturbing.
But maybe that was the point: Vian wanted his novel to be as unpleasant otmbes possible, but to what end I do not know. I say imaginings, because its doubtful Vian ever set foot in America, although this of course is not viaan point. A highly stylised crime noir, this slim novel packs in every conceivable affront to general morality and human decency. Being able tonbes integrate in white circles, Lee Anderson plots with cold calculation the path vizn multiple degradation and murders which will presumably tilt the balance of justice in his favour, to make up for the loss of his brother.
In a slight deviation from traditional revenge noirs, the intended targets here are not his brothers killers, but just any old whites, as long as they have sufficient standing in the community, so their deaths may make a cdacher. And so let the games begin. As each sordid scene unravels and bleeds into the next, it heralds a massive indictment on the hypocrisy, value corruption and decay of every conceivable layer of society: No one comes up trumps in this blazing inferno of human greed and desire seeking ever more depraved outlet: Es un sopapo directo a la cara.
Es horrendo, cruel, terriblemente violento, asqueroso. Es imposible identificarse con los actos de su protagonista. Como no lo tuvieron nunca los asesinos y racistas irao desolaron poblaciones enteras.
Ganas de llorar, de vomitar, de gritar, de putear, de exigir. Chapeau para Boris Vian Boris Vian ha scritto J’irai cracher sur vos tombes. Pseudonimo per scrittore di colore censurato in America. No, lo ha scritto lo chansonnier che ha composto Il Disertorecanzone celebre contro la guerra.